


Only In Dark, The Light

by Razzaroo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzaroo/pseuds/Razzaroo
Summary: "Andraste, Elthina says, asks only devotion from her followers. Vael’s glad of this, since he has nothing else to give, but there’s a small sacrilegious part of him that wants to ask what she has to offer in return."A prisoner is housed in the Chantry.





	Only In Dark, The Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Floranna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floranna/gifts).



> Despite Anders and Sebastian being my two favourites, I've never actually written them together so this was something new. Also, Sebastian is a tough nut to crack, hence why I've never written his PoV before.
> 
> This is an alternate universe where all the names and locations are the same, there's just some very canon divergent elements. 
> 
> The litany thinks over is Laudes Regiae with the names of martyrs I lifted directly from the DA wiki. The actual Laudes Regiae was sung at events such as coronations of Holy Roman Emperors (and is still, I think, for inaugurations of popes.)
> 
> The title is taken from the Earthsea series, as is the end quote :)

_The sun’s heat blazed_

_and streamed into the darkness_

_from which blossomed the gem_

_—in the building of the temple—_

_of the purest generous heart._

****

**_Hildegard of Bingen, Columba aspexit_ **

 

**_***_ **

Summer shivers its way into Kirkwall, the way all seasons do. Vael watches it come in, standing among the gentle candles and pews lined with quiet prayers; here, in the Chantry, summer makes herself known with light linen clothes, earlier dawns and waves of warmth washing in when the doors open for worshippers and those seeking respite from the afternoon sun. When the Chantry is quiet, he lingers by the door and remembers summer.

“It’s not your place,” Elthina says when she catches him, “Here is.”

She ushers him away from the door and pulls it closed, the thick wood closing out the honey-thick sunlight. Vael is left standing in its shadow and he curls his bare toes against the floor, still warm but missing the sun. The only light cast over him filters through the stained glass windows, jewel-toned spots that dapple his brown skin.

“I was told summer came early,” he says. Elthina’s hand is gentle on his elbow, “I wanted to see.”

“Summer comes when it’s ready,” Elthina says, “Your work here doesn’t depend on the seasons and so summer isn’t your concern.”

“I finished my work.”

“Then the day is yours.”

The day being his still doesn’t present many options. He is not allowed outside of the Chantry’s boundaries and the heat of the day makes the idea of the breezeless courtyard unappealing. He considers fetching his bow and some flint and wiling his hours away shooting the targets but his restless hands demand something else.

Eventually, he finds himself before Andraste, glowing golden and her face schooled into an expression of impassive benevolence. He’s seen the same expression on Elthina’s face, when it’s been a long day and she’s tired. He wonders if it’s learnt or if it’s something every holy woman is born knowing.

He kneels and lowers his head. The stone here is cool against his knees and feet; the only light here is from candles, burning low and soft. He’ll have to replace them tomorrow morning, for the worshippers and priests and other acolytes, but for now the chapel is his.

Andraste, Elthina says, asks only devotion from her followers. Vael’s glad of this, since he has nothing else to give, but there’s a small sacrilegious part of him that wants to ask what she has to offer in return.

 

* * *

 

When the novelty of summer’s heat fades, Vael’s life slips into the blur of routine. He wakes with the sun and joins the rest of the Chantry for dawn devotions before retreating back to his cell for breakfast. Mid-morning brings the people of Kirkwall for worship and Vael lingers in the men’s congregation, leading the liturgy when called upon.

From then on, he returns to the mundane but the litany turns its way over and over in his head, rising in crescendo until it’s his only thought as he sweeps the chapel, the tail of his broom whispering on the stone.

_Exaudi Andraste, salvator mundi, tu illos adiuva_

The broom scrapes and Vael hears the Chantry doors open, the sound of boots on stone.

 _Sancte Joffrey,_ _tu illos adiuva_

Elthina descends the stairs to greet Meredith, her knight commander, severe and silver and framed in gold. She imitates Andraste’s portraits.

 _Sancte Clothilde,_ _tu illos adiuva_

Vael glances and sees Templars, standing firm as pillars. Between them, he sees a shock of dark feathers and blond hair, stringy with dirt.

 _Sancte Hector,_ _tu illos adiuva_

Elthina spots him watching and beckons him over. The expression on her face is calm and composed and, had he been younger and greener, he would have thought this meant she was not angry. As he tucks his broom away and out of sight, he touches the sun symbol inscribed into the small altar and hopes that today has not worn on Elthina’s temper.

“After today,” she says when he reaches her, “This man will be your responsibility.”

The man in question stands between Templars, looking like overwhelmingly like a bedraggled bird. When he looks up, his eyes catch the candlelight and brighten when they land on Vael. They exchange no words, as the Templars are quick to move him on, pulling him down the stone steps to the darkness beneath.

“Why?” Vael asks and it’s a double edged question: _why is he here_ ; _why is he my responsibility?_

“He was found trying to steal from our vault,” Elthina replies. She sees his expression and rests her hand on his arm, “Though he’s not here to be punished. We don’t punish here. We only want answers.”

“And you want _me_ to get them?”

“No. Your only role is to attend to his needs.” Elthina’s hand is dry and smooth against his cheek and Vael leans into her touch, “I know that you’ve wanted something more than sweeping and lighting my candles. Sister Petrice is not here; this is your chance.” Her thumb strokes his cheekbone, “I trust you; don’t let me down.”

 

* * *

 

Waking before dawn is not unusual for Vael; it is, after all, usually the only way he can see to his own prayers before the congregation floods the chapel, the only way he can get food without having to wait until midday.

The Chantry is still dark and he can’t help but creep, as if afraid of being caught, like he’s profaning the ground by walking it before the sun rises. The only light comes from a few isolated candles, some of them already burnt to stumps; he makes a mental note to replace them as he makes his way down the narrow stone steps to the Chantry’s undercroft. Here, the dark is even more complete and Vael pauses to light some of the braziers, looking away before the new amber light can dance over the faded remains of wall paintings.

Vael stops outside one of the cells at the end of the hall, the only one with the door locked and sealed; the keys ring as he searches for the right one. Once, this had been where the brothers and sisters of the Chantry had slept and worked, before dormitories had been built. Now, it’s left in darkness, wall paintings left to crumble, cells left to grow cold.

He’d never really thought that they could have another purpose.

The man sits in the corner of the cell, dozing against the wall. There’s a cut on one cheek that Vael’s certain wasn’t there before. A chain runs from a heavy ring on the floor to a loop around his waist, glittering silver even in the dim light from the torches. Vael crouches next to him and rocks him awake, slowly.

“I still have nothing to say,” the man says, “so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Good thing I’m not here to talk then.”

The man lifts his head and makes a gesture with his left hand; when it fails to produce a result, he tries again with his right and then his left again before letting both hands drop in frustration. He searches the dark for something as Vael lays his breakfast before him.

“No magic?” the man says eventually. Vael snorts.

“Of course not.”

The man looks away from the sigils glowing red in the dark, “No light?”

Vael pauses and thinks of the candles he needs to replace in the Chantry. Neglected or not, this place is still part of that…

“I’ll try and get some,” he says, half a promise.

Later, he asks Elthina why the man had been left in the dark, with only old lights from old sigils as his company. Her hand stills in its writing and he takes the chance to carry on.

“He _needs_ light,” he insists, because he remembers hearing such a thing once and it is, after all, his duty to see the man has what he needs, “And the Chantry should have light in all its corners.”

“Then light them,” Elthina says, clipped, “I have other concerns and you’re a grown man; you don’t need to always come to me for permission.”

Vael is taken aback, because there’s so much that he does that Elthina disapproves of, such as his archery and his talk with people from outside the Chantry and his thoughts of the sun, that he feels every action he takes needs her to approve first.

Still, he keeps her words in mind, and takes candles for the undercroft when he replaces those around the main Chantry. Andraste demands nothing but devotion and Vael is nothing if not devoted to the Chantry, to his duty and to the honour of his words.

 

* * *

 

“My name is Anders.”

The man, Anders, still sits in his corner, even after a week, though his posture has relaxed. The silver hoop is still present around his waist and the sigils still glow a dull red but both are softer in the presence of candlelight.

“Anders,” Vael repeats and it tastes like only half of the story, “I’ll remember it for my prayers.”

“I don’t need prayers.” Anders cocks his head, making the cut on his cheek look even bolder, “What’s _your_ name?”

“You know what you can call me.”

“That’s not the same as knowing your _name.”_

Vael doesn’t answer and he doesn’t meet Anders’ eyes, though he can feel them searching him. He’s unused to scrutiny, being so used to slipping into the background of Chantry life, with Elthina’s being the only attention he seeks.

“Is there anything else you need, Anders?” he asks, breaking the silence. Anders blinks, and whatever hold Vael has on him is gone. He shakes his head and Vael stands, “Then I have other duties to attend.”

He leaves the matches, to keep the candles burning, and retreats out of the undercroft. The Chantry stands empty and golden as he passes through to his quarters. It’s dark here too, but a gentler dark than Anders had to endure, dusty and open. An autumn coloured cat is curled up on the end of the narrow bed, stretching and moving to his lap when he sits beside her. Absently, Vael scratches the lonely place behind her ears and watches a cobweb move across his ceiling.

When the bells ring for the evening service, he’s already asleep.

 

* * *

 

Elthina’s own personal office is the only place in the Chantry with clear windows, windows that let the sun come in in all its glory. Everything in the room is made out of wood the colour of honey and lacquer makes it all shine. Elthina takes her tea quietly and without looking up, leaving Vael on edge opposite her; usually, she at least makes eye contact. Coriander sits content in his lap, purring loudly enough that Vael’s certain Meredith can hear her on the other side of the door.

“Did you miss service last night?” Elthina says, setting her cup down delicately, “Or did I just miss you?”

“I…no, Elthina. I wasn’t there.” Vael runs one hand down Coriander’s back, “I wasn’t well.”

“I see.”

Elthina looks him up and down; her expression isn’t one of concern but of calculation, measuring him up, measuring his faith.

“If you are still unwell, I can have someone else see to our guest’s needs,” she says. She smiles at the cat in his lap, “I’m sure Coriander would prefer you’re well.”

“I can handle him,” Vael says. Elthina, he thinks, would only leave a Templar to see to Anders and they’d left him in the dark, “He’s not actually much trouble.”

Elthina sniffed, “Be careful. He could well be playing you for a fool.”

Vael thinks of Anders huddled in the corner of his cell and how he always looks afraid as footsteps approach the door, although it can only be Vael every time; he thinks of the cut on the man’s face, livid, that Anders refuses to let him touch and clean.

“If he is,” Vael says slowly, “I can only ask forgiveness from you, from Andraste, from the Maker.”

“If he is, forgiveness will not help you.” Elthina signs and rubs her forehead in exasperation, “You don’t need to take on anything else today; if you are ill, then he should be your only worry and then rest. I’m sure I can find someone else to pick up where you can’t.”

She waves him away and Vael takes his leave, Coriander cuddled against his chest, Anders’ breakfast of bread and honey in the satchel hanging from his own shoulder. His own stomach snarls with hunger as he leaves Elthina’s office but he resolves to bear it, penance for missing the service the evening prior and for not taking on his duties today. Meredith’s disapproval burns the back of his neck but he finds himself unaffected; it’s not as if he’s the only thing she disapproves of.

The dark of the undercroft is a shock to his eyes after the brightness of Elthina’s office and the Chantry by morning. Coriander squirms free as he blinks the darkness back from his vision and, from Anders’ cell, he hears a gasp.

“Hello, beautiful!”

Vael approaches Anders’ cell with some caution and, when he looks around the door frame, he sees Coriander lying on her back, her paws curled as Anders rubs her belly. The look on her face is one of pure bliss, one that usually only Vael can draw out of her. Her purring sounds like singing.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vael says, “Elthina wanted too…”

He trails off, because Anders has managed to coax Coriander into his arms; he holds her like a woman would a baby and fusses over her, his thin fingers working the soft fur of her belly and the thinness of her throat. If Coriander, old as she was, died right there and then, Vael would have no doubts that she would be dying happy.

“That’s Coriander,” he says, lame as an injured horse, “She doesn’t usually like strangers.”

“I’ve always been good with cats,” Anders says with a happy sigh, “I used to have a cat. Ser Pounce-a-lot. I had to give him up.” He shifts his hold on Coriander, so he can kiss her owl-like forehead, “You’re lucky to have her.”

“She’s _supposed_ to be a mouser,” Vael says as he lays out the bread and honey, “But she prefers to sleep and be spoilt.”

“As she should be.”

Anders lets Coriander roll out of his arms so that she can wander the cell, poking her nose into dark corners. Vael watches as Anders wolfs the food and rests his chin on his knees as his stomach growls again.

“Didn’t anyone come last night?” he asks, when Anders pauses for breath, “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Anders shakes his head, “No one did.” He gestures to the walls, “The candles were a nice touch.”

“I thought you’d need some relief from the dark.”

“I used to have it at my fingertips,” Anders says, looking at his empty, ineffectual hands, “Like blue fire.” Vael withdraws from him a little and he huffs, “Maker’s breath, you can’t think I’m a threat to you! With those?” He gestures to the sigils above, “With this?”

He pulls on the chain around his waist before his energy runs out of him and he leans against the wall behind him. He beckons to Coriander with one hand but she doesn’t move, only watches, her golden gaze sliding between Anders and Vael.

“I don’t think you’re a threat, Anders,” Vael says, “The Chantry only teaches that magic is dangerous and thus needs monitoring.”

“Do they monitor archers? Sellswords?” Anders smirks, “Of course they do. Where else do they get Templars?” He rubs one hand across his jaw, through his beard, up his cheek to tangle in his hair and he suddenly seems very tired and underwhelming.

“I can—” Vael starts a sentence but is cut off by Anders laughing.

“Talk to Elthina? You think she’ll listen to some underling with no name of his own? If it was that easy, I’d have gone straight to her door rather than her vault, don’t you think?”

The quip about his name stings but Vael bites back his frustration, as Elthina would expect him to. Anger is the domain of the Maker, not those who serve him.

“You’re only comparing it to weapons; people are scared of those too,” he says and there’s still a bite in his tone, “What else is magic good for?”

“Healing,” Anders says. He sounds lost, “I was a healer.”

 

* * *

 

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

_I was a healer._

Vael finds himself in the Chantry’s library, burying himself in manuscripts on Chantry history. Tevinter and her magisters, he’s been told, are the inevitable end of all mages. Mages use their power to hurt and to conquer; the only magic permitted in Kirkwall and the lands around it is that which comes from the Maker’s own hand. For the mages of Kirkwall, it meant confinement or secrecy and nothing in between.

 “ _We must forgive them_ ,” Elthina would say, “ _Because they are still the Maker’s children_.”

 “But they must know each other,” Vael murmurs, thinking of Anders, “How else could they stay secret or safe?”

Elthina’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, “It’s been a long time since I saw you here. I thought we were past poring over our textbooks.”

“I was only looking for clarification,” Vael says, “About Chantry law and magic.”

“I suppose it doesn’t hurt to go back to basics. What were you struggling with?”

“Apostate healers. They use their magic to _serve_ the people around them—”

“And they can continue to do so, under Chantry supervision and through appropriate channels,” Elthina says firmly, as if she can already hear the question on his lips. She moves to rest her hand on the book in front of him, “It’s the law.” The book closes, a full stop. “And such questions aren’t for you.”

 

* * *

 

“Where are you from?” Anders asks, and Vael has to blink the last remains of sleep out of his eyes.

“Starkhaven,” he says, “The accent, I’m told, is a giveaway.”

“What’s Starkhaven like?”

“It’s…” Vael pauses, coming up against the black velvet of his memory. He gropes for what people have said about Starkhaven, in attempts to talk to him about it, “a kinder place than Kirkwall.”

“That’s not a hard thing to find. Is that all you can say about it?”

“Yes. I don’t remember much.”

Anders’ eyes narrow, “So you have no proper name and no memories. Only what the Chantry’s given you. Is there _really_ no part of you that wants more than that?”

The question, Vael feels, is a foolish one; of course he wants more than what he has. He wants green fields and open sky and endless spills of sunlight. He is, after all, only human and it’s in human nature to want what he doesn’t have.

“The Maker has other plans,” he says, “And what about you? Where are you from?”

“Ferelden.”

Vael brightens, “The birthplace of Andraste.”

Anders snorts, “The same. The Chantry neglects to mention how it smells like wet dogs and turnip stew.”

“That wouldn’t make as good a song.”

Anders smiles and Vael can see the laugh hiding in his throat. ‘ _Saving them for better days’_ he thinks but Anders can’t know when better days might be, if they come for him at all.

“What is it _you_ want?” Vael says, “At least, what is it you want that wouldn’t break the law?”

“Right now? A bath.” Anders runs one hand over his jaw and the coarse hair there, “A half decent shave. Fresh air.” Through the dark, Vael sees his expression turn longing, “Rain on my face again. One more look at the sun.”

 

* * *

 

Autumn drips its way into Kirkwall, a grey curtain of rain that comes in on the tide. Vael watches at it revives the huddles of plants in the Chantry garden, bringing life back into the parched earth. He drags his targets into the garden, taking advantage of the small window between summer’s heat and the onset of winter, left entirely alone as Elthina and the rest of her flock descend into town for the first harvest blessing.

“You’re better than I thought you would be.”

Vael lets his nocked arrow loose, watching it thud into the centre of the target before he turns to Anders. Even in the thin sunlight that’s managed to filter through autumn’s misty rain, he looks washed out by the long weeks spent in the undercroft but somehow still bright, as if he carried a light in his centre, somewhere beneath his ribcage. Vael can’t tell if it’s something natural to Anders or due to fresh air, a clean shave and his first proper bath in weeks.

“You thought I was lying?” Vael says, “Why would I do that?”

Anders plucks at the chain still looped around his waist, “Well, today is showing that you have a penchant for dishonesty.”

“What Elthina doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vael says immediately, “And not telling her isn’t the same as lying.”

“If that helps you sleep.”

Anders wanders the garden, pinching leaves between his fingers. He crouches down by the beds of elfroot and reaches in to pull out Coriander, dusting wet earth off of her paws as he straightens up.

“Nothing grows in Darktown,” he says, “I didn’t know the Chantry grew their own; I had to scavenge mine.”

“You lived in Darktown?”

“I _existed_ in Darktown.”

Despite being cloistered in the Chantry, Vael knows the reputation of Darktown. The pit of Kirkwall, where the only light comes from lanterns that stink of oil, and spring is a myth. Anders doesn’t seem the type who would live in such a place, let alone thrive.

Then again, Vael remembers that Anders has lasted the summer in the coldest, darkest part of the Chantry with only one man and a cat for company; whatever light that sustains him, it’s clearly one that isn’t easily snuffed out. Vael watches as Anders showers Coriander in affection and he wonders what Anders sees when he looks his way.

“Darktown makes for a busy clinic.”

“It never ends.” Anders smiles, half hidden in the back of Coriander’s neck, “Fool’s work, really.” He sighs, “I’d ask if you could see Lirene but you’re not allowed to leave the Chantry, are you?”

Vael turns his bow around in his hands and wants to ignore Anders in favour of his targets. He wants to take Coriander and leave Anders in the garden, under rain clouds that are bowing under the weight of themselves. He wants to open the Chantry doors and tell Anders to go and to never crawl under his skin again.

He does none of these things.

“I never said I wasn’t allowed to leave,” he says instead, “Why would you think that?”

Anders cocks his head, considers Vael the way the birds do, “I’ve seen enough trapped people to recognise one when I see him.” Something sad crosses his face, dims his light, “I hate to say it, Vael, but you deserve more.”

 

* * *

 

Meredith finds out. She finds out about the candles and the questions and that Vael had Anders outside with him, unrestrained, in the autumn rain.

He’s in Elthina’s office when he hears her coming and quickly tears out the page he’d been looking for, stuffing it into the pocket of his robe as she blocks the door. To anyone who didn’t know her, she would have looked calm but Vael recognised the white anger in her face, the hard line of it in her mouth.

“You were seen,” she says, “with him. In the courtyard. Why?”

 “Because candles only do so much,” Vael says, “And I was with him.”

What goes unsaid is this: Vael is a man of faith and he places his faith in himself and in Anders, as much as he does in the Maker. As a servant of the faith, Meredith should understand.

She does not.

His punishment is confinement in his cell and his only light comes from his candles, his window boarded against autumn’s chill and the approaching winter cold. Only Coriander is able to come and go as she pleases, slipping through the hatch at the bottom of the door. His duty for Anders is taken away and replaced with a promise that Elthina will speak to him, when she feels she can face him again.

 When she does come, Vael is slouched on his narrow cot, leaning against the wall. His first candle is burning to a stump in the cradle of his hand and the room smells of hot wax. The cell is dark except for his tiny circle of light and the dim amber from the corridor that pushes past Elthina stood in the doorway. Her face is still cast in darkness and when Vael looks to her, he cannot find her eyes.

“I had to hear from Meredith,” she says and the disappointment drips, thick as honey and bitter as vinegar.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Vael says, his eyes still fixed on the tiny flame in his cupped palms. It sputters slightly against the liquid wax.

“It was still a deception. I had faith in you; I didn’t believe you would bend so easily.”

Elthina doesn’t wait for an answer before she steps back and locks the heavy door. The thick oak blocks out any sliver of light from the hallway and Vael is left alone with a bitter taste sitting in his mouth, the realisation that Elthina doesn’t see that his choices were spurred by faith too.

 

* * *

 

There are two ways for Vael to spend his days: sleeping or praying. He manages both in equal measure, although he’s sure Elthina would prefer he devoted more time to the latter. Andraste stands vigilant as an icon, serene and ever seeing, crowned by sunlight. A small voice in the back of Vael’s mind that sounds suspiciously like Anders notes the irony of a man held in darkness being watched by a woman crowned in light, the prophet of his faith, who championed freedom.

‘ _Elthina only does what she thinks is best,’_ Vael thinks as he kneels, ‘ _Which is all the Maker can ask.’_

He takes his matches and lights the last candle in front of his icons before lowering his head; if Elthina or Meredith or the knight-captain should choose to look, they will only see silent prayer and assume repentance, seeking guidance from his Lady. From the Chantry, he can hear hymns, the rising music of compline, and feels a twinge of guilt that he is co-opting such a holy time for something so selfish.

The page that he’d taken from Elthina’s records is spread across his lap, crumpled from being stuffed into his pocket, the spidery handwriting hard to read in the dim light of his candle.

‘ _Anders,’_ the paper reads, ‘ _a known apostate was today apprehended attempting to break into the Chantry vault. His reasons are unknown, as he refuses to speak to us, though it can be assumed that he was seeking one of the relics we keep safe; there is a belief among certain mage sects that the fragments of Andraste’s blade were once part of a staff and thus proof of Her own magic.’_

Vael pauses. Andraste’s blade, so legend said, had been shattered by the Tevinters and its fragments collected by Her followers after being cast out. If there are beliefs that such fragments were once a mage’s staff, then they must have been started by the Tevinters themselves, seeking to claim the prophet as one of their own. Peering at the icon before him, Vael sees no trace of a mage’s staff in Andraste’s sword, held point down with one of Her hands resting on the pommel while the other is raised in a gesture of blessing. He shakes his head and returns to his reading.

‘ _The apostate will be held in the Chantry until Meredith sees an appropriate moment to carry out full and proper punishment; as he acted as a healer, any actions against him will cause unrest in Darktown and Lowtown so long as he is remembered. Until that time, Sebastian will see to his needs; I tire of his lingering at doorways and windows and he needs something more than a kitten to keep him from being distracted by thoughts of what lies beyond the walls.’_

Sebastian. The name lifts off the page and settles on him like a mantle, like it belongs, rests on his tongue like a memory. _Sebastian._ The sound of it is rebukes and reprimands, touches of panic, and overwhelming exasperated fondness. It is memories and sense of self.

Anders had asked for his name and he’d had nothing of substance, nothing _real_ to give in return. Now he does.

“Sebastian,” he whispers, as if Anders is here to hear him, “My name is Sebastian.”

The painted Andraste seems to sigh, as if in relief, as his last candle flickers out but Sebastian had long forgotten what it means to be afraid of the dark.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian’s not sure when his release comes. He’s tried counting services, one for morning and one for evening, but with no sun he’s unsure which is which; with no calendar, he can’t tell which day it is and can’t track the services. He loses track of the endless liturgies and wishes he’d noted the date he’d been locked away so he could at least find his bearings in the martyrs’ days.

The key turns in the lock and he looks up, Coriander contentedly settled on his feet, as the door opens. The knight-captain stands there, his face in shadow, the only bright part of him where the torchlight in the corridor touches his hair. He holds out a bucket of hot water and a satchel of what seems to be medicinal supplies, judging by the gauze peeking out.

“You’re needed in the undercroft,” the knight-captain says when Sebastian moves to take the bucket and satchel from him, “Now.”

He turns and marches away before Sebastian has a chance to ask anything. Sebastian doesn’t waste time watching him go; instead, he hurries down to the undercroft, following Coriander as she skips down through the narrow passages of the Chantry, intended for acolytes in centuries passed and thick with silver dust.

The undercroft smells cold and damp, unnatural after the relative warmth of Sebastian’s cell. The glow at the end is dim and Sebastian has to be careful where he treads, the lack of light making it treacherous. Coriander is silent and he only knows where she is by her small meows, as if she is leading him forwards.

Anders has returned to his old spot in the corner, curled in on himself like a bud, waiting for spring. Sebastian sets down the bucket and satchel to take up the last remaining candle, crouching beside Anders. He makes sure that his hands are gentle when he touches Anders’ shoulder, draws his attention back from whatever place he’d retreated to.

Anders lifts his head and Sebastian almost recoils. His face is a mess of bruises, a cut dark red on his lip; his left eye glistens red, dark and empty, and the other searches the dark. He finds Sebastian and sags into him, head on Sebastian’s shoulder.

“I thought they might have killed you,” he says, slurring, “for treason.”

“No,” Sebastian says, soft as shadows, “They need me to clean you up.” He hesitates, “How bad is it?”

“Forget about the eye; that’s gone,” Anders says, worn down, “The rest…be gentle with me and it will go away.”

Sebastian pushes him back, careful and tender, so that he can retrieve the water and the bandages. Gently, he cleans the dried blood from Anders’ face, cautious of every wince and hissed breath, bolstered by Anders’ hand closed around his wrist and guiding his hand. He covers the bloodied eye with gauze, clean and white, as if such a thing will be of any use. Anders leans against him, face tucked into his neck.

“You asked me what my name was,” Sebastian says, half to Anders and half into the dark, “It’s Sebastian. You can call me Sebastian.”

Anders repeats it like a prayer, committing the feel of it to memory, the taste of it to heart.

“It suits you,” he says, “Better than whatever Elthina called you.”

“Elthina never called me anything.”

They fall into quiet, Anders moving away to lean against the cool stone wall as Sebastian retrieves the stumps of long extinguished candles, lighting them on the struggling flame already on the floor. It doesn’t take long until Sebastian’s established a ring of light around them, feeble flickering thing, shield against a darkness that suddenly feels pressing and alive.

“Then she doesn’t deserve you,” Anders says, “All people deserve their names.” His hand finds Sebastian’s in the dark, “Even underlings.”

 

* * *

 

A month, Sebastian was locked away, and returning to Chantry life shows that autumn has truly settled into place. The soft linens and light colours of summer have given way to wool and fleece all in sober colours; the jewel light cast by the stained glass is replaced by mud tracked in by the congregation, smearing the coloured tiles. Sebastian spends his time between services and Anders scrubbing the floors, keeping his head low and letting his mind wander.

Anders has been here since summer. With winter fast approaching the Chantry’s doorstep, Sebastian has a cold and itching feeling that Meredith will soon find it appropriate to act on her promise to punish him properly. Sebastian stops his cleaning, rinsing the scrubbing brush in his bucket of water, and looks up at the painting of Andraste that covers the wall. The Maker’s eye watches over the both from the ceiling.

‘ _Maker,’_ he thinks, ‘ _Andraste. If there’s ever been a time that you consider taking notice of me, I ask that you do now.’_

There’s no reply from Andraste and the Maker’s eye remains unblinking. The only sound is the constant pour of rain and the water makes the light coming through the windows slippery and strange. His thoughts linger on Anders; the man’s injuries are on the mend but whatever light that Sebastian had seen in him is fading, close to being snuffed out, and Sebastian can barely coax it back to brightness.

He stands and flexes the stiffness out of his ankle, going to tip the bucket of water over the back steps of the Chantry before raiding the kitchen for baked apples, their cores scooped out and replaced with a warm mix of dried fruits and honey. The cook turns her face away and pretends not to see him; she, Sebastian knows, is from Darktown. He wants to ask if she knows of Anders, if she remembers him, as if one woman’s memories could make any difference.

 

* * *

 

It’s the Canticle of Threnodies that makes his choice.

The Chant of Light is, according official stances, intended for interpretation; the Chantry serves only as a guiding hand. This, Sebastian feels, is dangerous for doubting hearts.

_Then the Maker said: “To you, My second born, I grant this gift: in your heart shall burn, an unquenchable flame, all consuming and never satisfied.”_

He thinks of Anders, who is still somehow still alive and how long he’s burnt, dim though he’s become. He thinks of bruises and dark spaces where eyes had once been and no amount of gauze can hide.

He oils his bow and the smell of the oil fills his nose. Coriander sits content on his bed, watching him with amber eyes and her expression is strangely approving. He stands to take one of the boards from the window, despite the autumn cold, and a slim beam of moonlight lands on his makeshift lockpick.

That night, Sebastian doesn’t sleep. He sits awake with Coriander warming his lap, watching as clouds cover the stars with the promise of more rain. He twitches with worry and kneads at Coriander’s fur. The cell is dark where the moonlight can’t reach.

_In the absence of light, shadows thrive._

“If I doubt now,” Sebastian says to no one and to himself, “then I am lost.”

 

* * *

 

Morning brings little relief. The Chantry is ghostly with no one in it and every footstep echoes, every whisper is breathed back. Sebastian sticks to the shadows and Coriander follows, more confident than he is; the Chantry at this time is her domain and not even the Maker would dare challenge her. He’s abandoned his robes in favour of shirt and breeches, keeping only the dark outer coat for warmth; the sunburst embroidery across his back gleams faintly under the low candles. His bow is a weight on his back, his quiver rattling like an alarm on his hip. For the first time, the Chantry feels unsafe.

The Templars on guard doze where they stand, ignorant of the shadow and the man who follows in her footsteps. Coriander goes into the dark unafraid and her eyes are Sebastian’s lamps.

Anders is sleeping when Sebastian reaches him, huddled in the corner like a cat. Sebastian rouses him slowly and gently, hands on his shoulders, and he unfurls, flexing his fingers as if he still hopes to call forth flames.

“My dreams are getting boring,” he says, voice thick with sleep, “Usually, my dreams about Sebastian are much more interesting than this.” His brow pinches in a frown as Sebastian picks at the lock on the silver hooped around his waist, “What are you doing?”

“We have to go, Anders.”

“We?”

“I can’t stay.” The silver hoop pops open under Sebastian’s hands and he stares at the two halves for a moment, “They’ll know it was me.”

Anders sits, suddenly wide awake. He takes the silver from Sebastian and tosses it aside. His fingers are pale against Sebastian’s skin, pressed against the fluttering pulse in his wrist.

“And then they’ll kill you.”

“Or just lock me away.”

“That’s as good as and you know it.”

Sebastian stands and pulls Anders up with him. Anders is still, one hand on his waist, as if the lack of silver there is alien; the other hand holds on to Sebastian’s elbow, warm and anchoring.

“Show me out of here,” he says. He touches the gauze still covering his eye, “I don’t see so well in the dark anymore.”

“I couldn’t find you a staff.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t need a staff to be dangerous; I am what I am.”

He follows Sebastian, pressed against his side, and his steps aren’t the ones of someone hesitant and unsure. Sebastian tries to ignore him and the heat of him and his own longing for closeness and warmth. Far off, he can hear the sound of steel boots and he draws and arrow, pulling his arm free of Anders’ hold.

“Templars,” he says, halting at the foot of the stairs. Coriander sits, a small lump of shadow on the stone, “If things go sour up there—”

“You let _me_ handle it,” Anders says, and already his voice sounds stronger, rekindled, “Not to insult you, but you’re just one man with a bow and you can only fire so many arrows. Don’t let your pride make you stupid.” He leans in and his mouth is against Sebastian’s neck, “I had my doubts, but you’re good and the world out there needs more good men.”

He takes the lead then, leaning on the wall instead of Sebastian. Sebastian watches him, a little dumbfounded, the skin on his neck still warm, and wonders how his rescue mission was so easily flipped. Was he so weak, that even the smallest suggestion of a kiss was enough to put him on the back foot?

Anders waits for him, halfway up the stairs, one hand half outstretched in invitation. Sebastian can already see his magic coming back to him in the brightness in his remaining eye, the way he seems edged in pale blue light.

‘ _It’s your mind,’_ Sebastian thinks, ‘ _You see what you want to see, expect to see.’_

He replaces the arrow back in his quiver and takes Anders’ hand. Magic fizzes up his arm, as if lightning has touched him, but it doesn’t hurt. The dark retreats against Anders’ smile. Somewhere better, his smile promises, or at least an attempt at it; somewhere with blue skies and open air, something beyond stone walls and having no name.

It is, in some strange way, the promise of a future, if there is any beyond the Templars coming to take Anders away.

They emerge into the soft morning light in the Chantry together. Anders has to blink against the light but Sebastian adjusts quickly, his bow already in hand.

Templars already crowd the Chantry, gleaming silver in the candlelight, in the faint suggestion of sunlight. Meredith leads them and she scowls when she sees Sebastian, anger moving across her face like clouds. She grasps an iron brand in one hand, tipped with a sunburst. Instinctively, Sebastian moves in front of Anders, as if he will be enough to shelter him.

“I should have known,” Meredith spits, “He’s corrupted you, as his kind does.”

Sebastian swallows, takes a breath and says, “Or maybe this is what the Maker wanted all along.”

“Bold,” Meredith says, “to assume you know the will of the Maker.” Her grip on his upper arm is bruising as she pulls him away from Anders, “I act with the approval of the Grand Cleric, the Maker’s voice in Kirkwall. I’m only sorry the same can’t be said for you.”

She shoves him to the knight-captain, his bow clattering to the ground, and turns her attention back to Anders. Anders glares, now alone, and he hardly looks like the threat they think he is.

“This one first,” Meredith says, “Then Vael.”

Anders looks over her shoulder to meet Sebastian’s eye. There’s a warning in his gaze and a question: _are you ready?_ Sebastian looks at the brand and the gauntleted hands of the knight-captain pinning his arms to his sides. He gives Anders the barest nod.

And then there is light.

Blinding light bleeds through Anders’ skin, as if through cracks in stone, blue and bright as the sun. It spills forward and engulfs the surrounding Templars, bouncing off of their armour; Sebastian flinches, expecting to burn, but it passes over him. He crouches, eyes closed against the brightness, and his fingers wrap closed around the familiar wood of his bow. Metal clatters on the Chantry’s tiles as the Templars retreat, months of suppressed magic rolling out of Anders like a burst dam.

Anders tugs Sebastian back to his feet away and, at first, his magic stings but it’s quickly replaced by something soothing and unnameable, like water against a burn. Their footsteps fill the Chantry and, when Sebastian looks back, he sees that Anders leaves a trial of fire, burning without smoke on the tiles. Elthina watches from behind the altar and, even from a distance, he could see how cold her expression was.

The doors burst open with a gust of magic and the air is cold on Sebastian’s face. They pause for a moment as Anders gets his bearings and Sebastian blinks against the morning sun, bright and bold against his face. Coriander bolts past them and plunges into the living tangle of Kirkwall’s streets. Anders follows her, his grip unrelenting around Sebastian’s hand. He barely seems to care that his feet are bare.

Eventually, they run out of roads, the concrete dropping sharply into the slate-grey sea. Anders’ energy seems to dribble out of him again and he sits, dangling his bare feet over the water. He shivers and Sebastian shrugs off his coat to drape it over his shoulders.

“That didn’t go according to plan,” Sebastian says, and Anders snorts.

“The first thing you need to learn is that nothing ever does. Go to plan, I mean.” Anders pulls the coat closer and looks Sebastian up and down, sees how he wilts, “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know where to go.” The Chantry bells ring, loud and brash, a warning to the people of Kirkwall. Sebastian sinks down, hiding his face in his hands, “I don’t know what I’ve _done.”_

“You did the right thing instead of the easy thing. That’s a good start.” There’s a pause, “You said you were from Starkhaven?”

“Once. Long time ago.”

“Then we can go there. Find out who Sebastian Vael was.” When Sebastian looks up, he sees Anders shrug, Coriander waiting at his side, “Maybe then he can decide who he _is_.”

Sebastian doesn’t have high hopes for whatever awaits in Starkhaven but he nods and makes himself stand pushes down the small unpleasant feeling that’s started to bloom and curdle in his belly. Anders scoops up Coriander, cradling her in one arm; his other hand, he allows Sebastian to take and together, they retreat into the shadows of Kirkwall with the day’s first real light following on their heels.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they end up on a ship.

The captain is a woman named Isabela, with something catlike in her smile and eyes brighter than the gold stud she wears in her lower lip. She takes one look at Anders and his missing eye and promise of healing and tells him he’s hired.

“I’ll find something for you to do,” she says, cupping Sebastian’s jaw. There’s something disarming in her touch, the open flirtatiousness of her tone, and Sebastian almost considers reciprocating but holds back, one last rebellion against Vael-of-the-Chantry that he holds under his tongue.

In the end, she only gives him the job of mastering his sea sickness so he can give her something nice to look at. It’s all he feels qualified to do.

He sits tucked against the railing at the bow, watching the water; it’s blue now, between Kirkwall and the rest of the world, and the salt of it fills the air, coats his tongue. He tastes it in everything and that, he thinks, is part of why his stomach remains so stubbornly unsettled.

There’s the sound of boots against wood and then Anders comes into view; if he’d been bright in the Chantry’s garden, he’s brighter now with open air and sunlight and room to grow. He blooms, as spring does, and flourishes in a way that Sebastian feels he could never do.

“Still sick?” Anders asks, kneeling so they’re level. The Chantry linen is long gone, replaced by breeches and boots, a jerkin over a white shirt. “I can help, if you ask.”

“It’s not just the sea,” Sebastian says and he picks at a loose thread in his coat, “Before we left, you said I did the right thing.”

“You don’t think you did?”

“I turned my back on someone who gave me everything, Anders.”

“She took everything from you. She took your name and your freedom and replaced them with things that suited her.” Anders frowns, “There’s no moving forward if you keep looking back; you’ll only get lost.” He sucks in a breath, “I still haven’t said thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting me out of there.”

Sebastian frowns, “You got yourself out of there. I barely lifted my bow.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. _You_ unlocked the door. _You_ undid the chain. Alone, both of us would still be trapped.” Anders shrugs one shoulder, “I’d like to return the favour.”

“What does it mean, to have your name taken away?” The question comes out softer than Sebastian intended, his voice buckling under the weight of not knowing what to do with himself.

“I don’t know. I gave mine up before anyone else could try. Anders isn’t the name I was born with; it’s a name I adopted. I’ve lost the old one now. It’s like…a button that fell off a coat and I’ve replaced it with one that’s different but still fits,” Anders says, “That was my way of moving forward.”

Sebastian says nothing. He sits and watches the light on the water and Anders doesn’t leave him. He will not, he thinks, abandon his name for something new; _Vael_ had always been part of his name, one half of a whole, and he wants to take it back and make it _his_ again.

_If I doubt now, I am lost._

Looking forward, he sees Anders and the light that still glows, despite everything, mirroring the sun. Light, the idea of it, the _chant_ of it, has dominated Sebastian’s life though he feels he doesn’t know it; all he does know is that following light is the only way he can find his path out of the dark.

“I can start by trusting it’s the Maker’s plan,” he says, “And go from there.” He meets Anders’ eye, “I’ll find it.”

“You have time. Isabela says Starkhaven’s quite a way from here.”

The kiss comes unprompted but Sebastian relaxes into it, fingers curling into Anders’ sides. He’s a solid thing, an intricate making of flesh and bone, more real than the Maker and bright with promises of the future, the same promises as sunlight.

 

***

_Light is a power. A great power by which we exist, but which exists beyond our needs, in itself. Sunlight and starlight are time, and time is light. In the sunlight, in the days and years, life is._

**_Ursula Le Guin_ **


End file.
